The Legend of House Blackstone
by Enclave ranger
Summary: The Blackstone Legion finds themselves in the land of Westeros. Under the leadership of Azrael Blackstone, orphaned son of Apollyon, the great knights of Ashfeld put themselves in the service of Lord Eddard Stark. Meet House Blackstone and they are war.
1. Chapter 1

Ch. 1 The Arrival

 **AC 288**

It was quite frigid the day that _they_ came to Winterfell. The thunder of plated marching shook the very foundation of the great keep. Arms were called, women and children ushered into any form of shelter available. Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North, and father of four stood amongst his men upon the ramparts of his keep. Before him, beyond the walls of his allegedly impregnable keep, stood a veritable ocean of armed soldiers. A breathtaking number of these troops stood seemingly identical in appearance. These men, all resplendent in orange and black brigandine tunics, barbute helms, faces covered by cloth, bore kite shields and long-swords. However, despite the legions of these men, they were not the source of his fear; scattered amongst those men, stood armored giants, encased in steel and iron. Many of them rivaled even the Mountain in size; a number of them, those baring pole-arms and halberds, even surpassed the Clegane. Those who mimicked the Mountain in height, carried girthy swords, some even larger than the Stark's ancestral sword Ice; others, bore flails and crude kite shields. Thinner, hooded warriors, wielded two short-swords in either hand. Behind them flew banners of orange and black; a sigil, the likes of which Eddard had never before seen, a sword dividing half a skull on the left and half a great-helm on the right. Eddard was soon flanked by his master-at-arms Ser Rodrik Cassel, and Maester Luwin.

"Gods help us." Maester Luwin muttered fearfully.

"I don't they can." Ser Rodrik replied coldly.

"Quiet." Lord Eddard demanded.

The army halted, both the gargantuan knights and the comparatively diminutive foot soldiers stood still. It was only then that Ned noticed something: the enormous force appeared weary and bedraggled. The many of the titans wielding pole-arms and great-swords clutched onto them for support. The great legion slowly parted, giving way to four figures, only one of which was carried by a horse. The largest one, wielding a golden halberd, led the horse by the reigns; the other two, one hooded carrying short-swords, the other a flail and shield, followed closely. The closer the four came to the gates of Winterfell, the more the horseman became visible. Lord Eddard, along with many standing along the wall, was taken aback upon seeing that the figure. Just barely managing to remain conscious on his mount, head hanging low, was nothing more than a child, no older than his son Robb! Mutters and whispers ran throughout the men manning the wall. The giant came to a stop, planting his ornate weapon into the ground, bringing the horse and rider to a halt as well.

"We are the knights of the Blackstone Legion! And this-" The goliath bellowed, gesturing to the child on the horse, "-is our young lord Azrael Blackstone; son of Apollyon, former Warlord of the Blackstone Legion!"

More mutters and whispers filled the air; no such force had ever been heard of, and word of one of this nature would surely have been spread. Questions cascaded about Ned's head however, the enormous man spoke once more.

"My name is Holden Cross... We have traveled far. Our Lord… begs… for anything that you may spare. We are low on provisions and have many weary and wounded."

Regaining his senses, Eddard regarded them with suspicion.

"I am Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. You ask for my hospitality, with an entire army at your back?"

Eddard could see that many of the 'Blackstone Legion' were growing restless. 'Holden Cross' turned his head to the boy's bowed head and the two seemed to converse. Eventually, the man turned back to regard Lord Eddard.

"Lord Stark, these people are more than just an army, they are a people. Our home, Ashfeld, is no more; taken by foreign invaders. We have no intention of conflict, we only wish to find a place that we may call home!"

Upon hearing this, Ned grew even more suspicious. They may have been fatigued, but their sheer numbers alone would be enough to raze Winterfell to the ground. Yes, they claimed to have no intention to fight, but that may have only meant that they wished to take the castle through his unconditional surrender.

"If anything, at least help the boy! He's been wounded and has grown ill!" Holden begged anxiously.

At this the boy's head shot up in surprise, finally giving everyone a clear view of the young lord. He seemed young, about the same age as his own son Robb. His dirty blonde hair seemed unkempt and frazzled. His skin seemed deathly pale, were it not for the dark layer of grime that covered him. Piercing yellow eyes shifted to his protector. The most jarring attribute about him however, was the bloody bandages located in the center of his stomach. While the wound had been bandaged, it was dreadfully apparent that the child received no further treatment. Upon seeing this, Ned's eyes widened. Instincts gained by being a father himself, compelled him to snap his head back behind him.

"Open the gate!" he ordered, before turning back to the army before him, "Only you four may enter. We have much to discuss."

O

And much **was** discussed. The Lawbringer, Holden Cross, spoke of the boy's mother, Apollyon, and her vision of an age of war. He spoke of the Wardens, the Lawbringers, the Peacekeepers, and the Conquerors. He spoke of the Vikings of Valkenheim and Samurai of the Myre, the foreign hoards which invaded their home, Ashfeld. He told of how the boy rallied what soldiers they had left during the battle that took his mother, how he guided his people through cursed valleys in their escape. Holden told of how they had found themselves lost within woods fraught with forces beyond mortal comprehension, and eventually found themselves before Winterfell. Ned listened, only interjecting to ask an occasional question. In exchange, Ned told Holden of Westeros: of the generation long seasons, of Old Valyria, of the Targaryens, of Robert's Rebellion, and of the Old Gods and the New.

"And how was the boy wounded?" Eddard asked.

A pained expression washed over the Lawbringer's face in remembrance.

"During the assault, an Orochi confronted Apollyon-"

"-The boy's mother?" Eddard asked.

"Yes. The two fought and somehow, the Orochi managed to defeat her. It was at this point Azrael came in… poor lad… He watched as his own mother was cut down right in front of him. Tried to fight him, but a boy of six against an experienced Samurai? Kid didn't stand a chance… Eventually, we found him stumbling through the battlefield screaming for us to retreat. What could we do? It's the son of Apollyon! So we obeyed and...well… you know the rest."

Ned nodded in thought. To think that a boy of six had to endure such a thing…

"How is he?" Holden asked, concern lacing his voice.

"Fine. The maester says he'll be walking within the month. For now he's resting in our guest quarters." Ned comforted.

"That's good, we'd be lost without him." Sighed Holden, relieved.

"I'm glad to have had been of aid. But I must ask, what now? From what you have told me, your people have no place to call home." Inquired Ned.

"Well, that's for the boy to decide. If he were his mother, then he'd have us wage war with all of the Seven Kingdoms. Fortunately, despite his age, he's incredibly wise. He'll probably have us either bend the knee to you or your king, or he'll have us roam around fighting for the highest bidder; odds are it'll be the former. But none of that matters until he wakes up."

O

 _Upon Azrael's awakening, it was agreed that the Blackstone Legion would bend the knee and become one of Stark's bannermen. The decision was initially received with a level of discontent, however it was swiftly crushed upon learning that they would be provided lands and a keep. Soon enough, the Blackstone Legion was reborn as House Blackstone, led by the young Lord Azrael. The keep provided was known as Moat Cailin; a strategic lynch-pin of defense of the North from any southern incursion. The only issue was that it was in ruins, and allegedly had been for thousands of years. To the surprise of many Northern and Southern lords, House Blackstone accepted the decrepit lands with unforeseen enthusiasm. There was much talk of how the honorable Eddard Stark bestowed a keep to what they saw as little more than an army of sell-swords._

 _Many of these misgivings were eventually assuaged upon the victory of the Battle of Seaguard during the Greyjoy Rebellion; in which Lord Azrael sent his most trusted Lawbringer Ser Holden Cross, to aid the Tully's bannermen, the Mallisters in their defense. That victory however was only the preamble to a much grander statement as the knights of the Blackstone Legion aided the family that they had sworn fealty to during the Siege of Pyke. During the final assault on the Pyke, it was surprisingly the seven year old Lord Blackstone who had charged through the breach first, followed closely by Thoros of Myr and Jorah Mormont. His greatsword, Craven Saint, forged in what the Blackstone had called, Damascus Steel, weaved through the Ironborn lines with unparalleled skill. It was then that an unspoken consensus amongst the other lords of the realm was made that House Blackstone was one not to be trifled with. King Robert had never seen such a spectacle. He had heard that his old friend Eddard had gained a new and mysterious vassal, but to see true nature of these foreigners was something else entirely. The towering warriors carved through the Ironborn almost casually, occasionally spouting taunts in an odd language none but them could understand. In the end Balon bent the knee, and his son was taken to be fostered by Lord Stark himself in Winterfell. The Blackstone Legion returned to Moat Cailin in high spirits, knowing that they had made their first mark in this new world._


	2. Chapter 2

Ch. 2 An Odd Status Quo

 _ **Ashfeld**_

 _"_ _On your feet pup, the dust is for the dead." The raspy yet feminine voice ordered. The seven foot tall woman, encased in a suit of jagged black iron armor, paced around the four year old boy. Her hellish looking helmet lay off to the wayside, peering eerily at the mother and son duo. The woman's jaw and cheekbones were remarkably well pronounced, which only served to accentuate her pale already complexion. Her inhuman golden eyes searched for her son's matching pair._

 _Silently, the beleaguered child arose, brandishing his blade; his right hand resting right under the crossguard and his left holding the actual pommel of the sword. While it_ **was** _only an average broadsword, which was normally wielded with a single hand in accordance with a shield, it was the perfect size for the tiny Azrael to practice two-handed combat. A proud yet vicious smile graced Apollyon's gaunt face. Her little pup was coming along well; he would grow into a fine Wolf some day. In her upcoming age of Wolves, her boy must learn to surpass all others, and learn he did. Already, the boy had grown far too dangerous for him to face mere infantrymen. That much was proven absolute fact when the pup soundly slaughtered thirteen men upon learning that his mother set out to battle another legion. Such a feat melted his Warlord-mother's heart. Apollyon's love for her son was the only existing chink in her armor, and she welcomed that one weakness with open arms._

 _"_ _Again!" She barked, lunging at the boy with a near inhuman swiftness._

 _Azrael entered the_ _ **Ochs**_ _* guard: sword poised over his head and blade pointing at her throat. While Azrael's undeveloped body lacked strength, he more than made up for it in his swiftness. Wanting nothing more than to be done with this, Azrael made a harsh slash downward. Unfortunately, he failed to consider something: his mother was nearly three times his size. Azrael's eyes widened as his own mother plowed headlong into him, taking hold of his leather jerkin and slamming his back into the ground. The wheezing on the ground, his eyes met his mothers; his golden irises burning like fire._

 _"_ _Remember son, fairness is only a crutch for the weak. Never expect others to fight honorably."_

O

 **AC 295**

Repetitive thuds echoed throughout the newly renovated halls leading to the Lord's solar. Any who passed knew this sound well; it was the sound of Lord Azrael Blackstone lamenting having ever accepted this position. Azrael's solar was not what one would expect from a Lord: lining the walls were sketches of combat treatise diagrams, war machines, battle tactics, and armor and weapon designs. While not necessarily an intellectual, Azrael did learn to take advantage of what ingenuity he had. Shelves of books and ledgers reached up to the ceiling, none of which had been left unused. Behind a simple, yet well crafted mahogany table, sat a boy of ten and three who busied himself by rhythmically slamming his head against its surface. It was known far and wide that the knights of the Blackstone Legion lived solely for combat; so being sentenced to sit behind a table and manage a keep was a fate worse than death. To Azrael at least.

The ledger before him charted the state of Moat Cailin's chief source of income: battle. The Blackstone Legion had furthered their reputation in Westeros by lending out men to clear out raiders. From the occasional Wildlings further north, to even the Hill and Mountain Clans of the Vale, and everything in between. While some Lords were thankful for the aid, many grew bitter at the concept of an outside force operating within their lands. Whenever asked as to why the knights Blackstone would fight for lands not their own, they would always resolutely reply with the words of their house, 'We Are War'. Unfortunately, Azrael was not one of the lucky ones sent to combat. In truth, he had seen very little _real_ action since the Greyjoy Rebellion and the stagnation of peace wore away at his patience.

"Dear God, give me something, anything!" Azrael pleaded in that distinctive Blackstone accent. That was yet another significant distinction between House Blackstone and the rest of the Seven Kingdoms. While most of the people of Westeros had a specific cadence depending on the region of their upbringing, the knights of the Blackstone Legion lacked any form of patios. Each word was somehow pronounced with absolute precision while still sounding utterly natural. Even their mere diction was foreign to all but their own.

A sharp knocking sounded from the door; Azrael's eyes widened and his head shot up quickly to the ceiling.

"Thank you!" He prayed gratefully before shifting his sight to the door, "Enter."

The man who entered was well into his seventies, but no less burly. Roughly 6'8", the man easily fit in amongst the towering knights of the Blackstone Legion. His long, gray hair was tightly pulled into a bun located at the back of his head. The long chain he wore snaked around his right arm, starting at his wrists and reaching up unto his shoulders, wrapping around his orange and black tunic, then trailed down to the other arm. Kindness glistened in his faded brown eyes. This was Maester Ozmund, resident maester of Moat Cailin and unofficial Conqueror. While normally maesters were forbidden from taking part in conflict; Maester Ozmund found that what the Citadel didn't know couldn't hurt them, and therefore learned the art of war. Maester Ozmund gave a small bow, before drawing out a rolled note and handing it to the son of Apollyon.

"My lord, a raven arrived from Winterfell. It seems that Lord Stark has demanded your presence." He drawled in that learned accent of his.

"It doesn't say why..." Azrael hummed in thought.

"Well, you are sworn to his service; you must go regardless." Ozmund quipped.

Azrael groaned in protest, slowly sliding down and off his chair. Ozmund simply stood in silence, watching the childish behavior of his lord with an incredulous look plastered upon his face. Many forgot that despite his and his house's legendary feats, Lord Azrael Blackstone, the Son of War, the Other's Angel, the Warrior's Champion, was still but a boy. _This_ side of him however, had only been seen by a select few.

"Come, a Blackstone is not meant to do book work; get yourself to the training grounds and relax a little." Ozmund exhorted good naturedly.

Azrael's head slowly peeked over the table, his yellow eyes staring hopefully at Ozmund. Ah, so the boy was in _this_ kind of mood… Very well, Ozmund could play along.

"The Centurion, Ser Marcus, has returned." At this, the Lord of Moat Cailin jumped up excitedly.

Ser Marcus Aurelius was unique, even among the ranks of the Blackstone Legion. The twenty and three year old man towering at 6'9", was in a league all his own; however, this was in part due to his adopting the ancient teachings of the Roman Centurion. While some fought for warlords, they fought for an empire. Their might inspired generations of soldiers and struck fear in the heart of their enemies. Their confidence radiated out to all those who follow them. With their gladius as an extension of their arm and their fist as strong as their conviction. Once the pride of a glorious dynasty, their legend lived on through him. This was what earned Azrael's attention, and respect. The two quickly struck up a strong friendship and soon became nearly inseparable. In time, Marcus eventually became one of the most reputable generals in all of the Legion.

Without another word, Azrael rushed out of his chambers and into the hallway. The midday sun shone brightly through the newly placed windows, causing the young lord to falter for a moment. It had been dusk when he began his work on the ledgers, had he really been working for that long? This thought only spurned him on to race further to the training grounds. Taking a left and going down a lengthy flight of stone stairs, he found himself entering his keep's main hall. The light brown wooden planks lining the floor offset the dour stone columns and walls, letting either sunlight or torchlight to provide the enormous hall with a gentle sense of homely comfort. Bypassing the great hall, a familiar figure entered his line of sight. The familiar sight of the bronze colored chestplate, immaculately sculpted to emulate that of a muscular torso, and the masked Galea hemlet crowned by a crest of horse hair colored in orange and black, etched a wide smile on his face. The Centurion took notice of the boy and swiftly walked to meet him. As the two met in the middle, they greeted one another with a hearty grasping of their forearms, drawing each other in to a brotherly hug. They laughed as they parted.

"Mark! You son of a whore! How are you?" The Lord asked his general, happily.

"Good. Was going to the training grounds. You coming?" The Centurion asked bluntly. Azrael smiled and gestured ahead of the two.

"Lead the way old friend, lead the way."

O

 _ **STONE**_

If there was one thing Ser Stone hated more than cowardice, it was vanity; unfortunately, that appeared to be the only attitude that the unscrupulous Lord Ludd Whitehill was able to exude. The rotund Bolton bannerman had not yet seemed to grasp the insignificance of his situation and instead, through some manner impaired logic, deemed it wise to think himself standing on the proverbial high-ground. Apparently, Gwyn Whitehill, Ludd's daughter ended up in Ironrath and was found laying with Lord Gregor Forrester's second born son. So now, here was Stone who's job it is to prevent a small scale war between the two measly Houses. Even while the Whitehills and Forresters brainlessly prattled on about whatever, Stone allotted his attention towards devising a good way in which to wreak vengeance upon his little lord for assigning him this.

"It was _your_ boy who did this to _my_ daughter Forrester! My own flesh and blood! I demand restitution! I demand **compensation**!" Ludd Whitehill howled, slamming his meaty fist against the table.

To Ludd's left, stood his fourth born son, Gryff Whitehill; arms crossed, and a perpetual sneer marring his weaselly face. To his left stood the girl in question, Gwyn Whitehill, who seemed to be trying to shrink herself out of existence. Across from the Whitehills stood Lord Gregor, his wife, Elissa Forrester, his firstborn son, Rodrik Forrester, and the man of the hour, Asher Forrester.

"The girl came here on her own accord Lord Whitehill, she's _your_ responsibility! Asher will be punished, I assure you, but we refuse to be held responsible for _your_ families mistakes!" Lord Gregor shot back.

"That smug little shit of yours defiled my only daughter! He might've put a bastard in her for all we know! I won't let my family's name to be dragged through the mud by the likes of you lot! Not without recompense!" Ludd declared.

"Mind yourself Whitehill, that's my son you're talking about." Lord Gregor warned.

"The same son that fucked my daughter!" Ludd bellowed back.

Finally, Stone had had enough. Meticulously, he drew out his flail and paused a moment, hoping that someone had enough situational awareness to take notice of his actions. Seeing that no one had seemed to perceive even a modicum of his movement, he let out a wearied sigh.

 _ **WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!…**_ "Ser Sto-" _ **…..WHAM! WHAM!**_

The hall grew deathly silent as the two families watched the disgruntled Conqueror pulverize the ironwood table before them. Now glancing between the pile of mulch and the wall of a man who made it so, the two families could only gape in awe. Swiftly grasping hold of the flail's chain, Stone peered into the eyes of each Lord and Lady.

"You done?" He challenged, more than willing to complete this job with a generous supply of 'Blackstone Diplomacy'. Neither family spoke, so Stone continued.

"Good! Now here's what you're going to do: You, Whitehills, pull your heads out of your own asses and keep better track of your shit! Ever make me come back up here again, and I'll be going home with your scalp on my belt. Understood? Yes? Good! And you, Forresters… Do _something_ with that son of yours, _anything_! Lock him up, put him to work, make him pay a fine; if you want to banish him, Blackstone's always happy to have new recruits. If you ever want him back, then we'll be happy to oblige. We're both bannermen to the Starks, so I'll be lenient and say that if there's anymore problems we won't be there to pull you out. Good? Good! If either of you have any further objections, refer to the table. And if either of your families even _think_ of starting something, know that the Blackstone Legion will be the ones to finish it… and you. Are we clear?"

O

Needless to say, his plan mostly worked… mostly. The Whitehills submitted with the promise that they would incite no further conflict and that should Gwyn be with child, the child would be legitimized as a Forrester. Apparently, the Forresters were just as stubborn as the Starks, and twice as incorrigible. Out of the all the options Stone gave, it was decided that Asher would be cast out from Ironrath and join the Blackstone Legion indefinitely. Upon hearing the full agreement, Lord Ludd heatedly questioned the motives of the terms; surprisingly, it was Lady Elissa who explained its purpose. If Gwyn were to have Asher's bastard, it would taint the Whitehill name; however, if the child were to be brought to Ironrath and legitimized as a Forrester, it would reflect more negatively on the Forresters. Asher was to be banished from Ironrath, and subsequently Highpoint, unless there strictly on Blackstone business. His enlistment was actually more of a misdirection on Stone's part; he had convinced the doltish Lord Whitehill that the Blackstone Legion was something akin to the Night's Watch, while in reality, the two couldn't be any more different.

As the sun set for the first night of the journey home, a camp was made and a fire lit. Sitting across from each other, the two wordlessly feasted on roasted rabbit. Bereft of his helmet, Stone's face was visible by the firelight. His hair was short and black, his eyes were dull brown, his pinkish skin seemed almost orange from the light of the fire.

"So what's it like?" Asher asked, breaking the silence.

"Huh?"

"What's House Blackstone like?" Asher rephrased.

"What do you mean?" Stone asked shortly.

"Well, we don't know all too much about you in Ironrath, besides that you're vassals to the Starks yourselves; what's your hold like, your lands, your lord, your people?" Egged on the Forrester. Stone let out a sigh and threw a bone into the fire.

"Well, as you probably know, we hold Moat Cailin in the Neck. The weather shifts between Southern and Northern on a whim, so half the time it's either humid and hot or wet and cold. Much of the Neck is made up of marshes and swamp-lands; it used to be most of it until Lord Azrael took charge and had all the crannogmen drift their little islands together and connect them."

"All of them?" Asher asked in surprise. Stone nodded.

"Most of them… Well, a lot of them… There's more keeps in the Neck than just Moat Cailin. He even convinced House Reed to do the same with the ones close to Greywater Watch. At this point we've built up quite the land mass, even started calling it Mireland; it's funny, the people there actually call themselves Mirishmen, or just the Mirish."

"What about your lord, Lord Blackstone?" Asher pushed. Stone reclined, regarding the seven and ten year old for a moment before asking,

"How much do you actually know about him?" Asher shrugged.

"Only the rumors. They say at the age of seven, he was the first one through the breach at the Seige of Pyke. That he recruits his people at random, sometimes even his own enemies to fight for him. They say that his greatsword can only be outmatched by a blade of Valyrian steel; that it's forged as if it was smoke made steel. Some even say that his mother was the spirit of war itself."

These were only but a few of the multitude of rumors about Lord Blackstone that circulated throughout the North; although, much of the others tended to portray the lord and his house in a significantly less than flattering light. Stone nodded contemplatively, silently gazing into the flames. After a moment of silence, light chuckle escaped from the Conqueror, turning the boy in front of him red with embarrassment. As Asher went to retract his statement, he was casually waved off by the armed jovial giant.

"Don't be embarrassed boy, I wasn't laughing at you. I just found it funny that you chose _those_ rumors to speak of specifically. You weren't too far off with any of those either, they're probably some of the more accurate ones out there. The whole thing about the Pyke was true, saw it myself. His recruitment methods? Well, they're similar to his mother's: only pick the strong, the skilled, the defiant, the _Wolves._ He'll accept others, but the way he sees it, there are only three kinds of people in this world: the rats, the sheep, and the wolves. His mother, the one who taught him this, was our previous Warlord, Apollyon. I'm sure you can guess what kind of a person she was with a title like that. Her name was a reference to a character from the Holy texts of our homeland. The true Apollyon was said to be either the angel or demon of war, who was to appear during the end of the world and command a host of unearthly creatures to torment the unworthy… She more than lived up to that name… So in a way, I guess one could say that Azrael _is_ the son of war…he sure can seem like it."

"But what is he actually like?" Asher begged.

Stone shrugged, "You'll just have to decide that for yourself."

 **Hey everyone, enclave ranger here, I just wanted to thank you for the surprising amount of interest people have taken in this story. The first chapter was me just testing the waters with a GOT crossover. I had actually considered writing a Destiny x GOT story, a Critical Role x GOT story, and even (God forbid) a self insert. I am still learning my way around story telling, and I can't make this story better without feedback; thank you to you that have already given me feedback through either reviews or PM's.**

 ***Ochs ("ox"), essentially assumed by drawing the weapon up and to the "outside". The point may aim somewhat downward or upward but typically aimed at the opponent's face or throat. This was called Finestra or "window" in Italian schools. Note** **the blade alignment by observing the angle of the cross, the blade is neither vertical nor horizontal but slightly diagonal, in fact, the natural position achieved by cutting upward. In this position note the short (back) edge aims not upward or downward but toward the fighter, while the thumb is under the blade, not on top of it. The hilt is held just in front of beside or the head at temple level, but may be also held just above it. Also, the Ochs is not a "hanging point" or hanging guard position. The Ochs position, although not as stable as others, protects well, allows a direct threat with its straight thrust, turn to cut diagonally downward, or pull back to cut from underneath.**

 **Felon GT: The Blackstone Legion is now officially House Blackstone, and are sworn to the Starks, they already receive income as a kind of sell-sword company sanctioned by the king and the Lord Stark.**

 **Nike3847, Perseus 12, Hiei Uchiha, Shocknawe 425, and many more: Thanks!**

 **Special thanks to Captain Fuckew McHugerage and all those that PM'd me.**

 **Remember, If you have any thoughts, questions, or ideas feel free to speak up, this is YOUR story as it is mine.**


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